


Beneath the Bitter Snow

by wolfwithwoodenteeth



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: And none for Littlefinger, F/M, Past Abuse, R plus L equals J, Sansa has hypothermia, Sansa wants to protect Jon, Some Fluff, and she needs body heat to get her warm again, but the price is too high, just a tiny bit of Angst, protective!Jon, protective!Sansa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 09:11:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9378011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfwithwoodenteeth/pseuds/wolfwithwoodenteeth
Summary: Sansa would never agree to that. She didn't like anyone touching her, even if they weren't men. She didn't know her maids well enough, wouldn't trust them with such a task. Perhaps Brienne could do it. He tried to remember whether he'd ever seen her touch Sansa. No. He'd never seen anyone touch her. She could hardly even stand having those maids help her dress. She flinched whenever one of the stable boys tried to assist her when dismounting her horse.





	1. Chapter 1

They found Sansa under the heart tree of Winterfell's Godswood, her face as pale as the snow covering her legs and shoulders and the hood of her cloak, not responding to any of them calling her name. Jon didn't even wait for the man delivering the message to finish his first sentence, already running back to the the Great Keep. He climbed the stairs to the family quarters, taking two steps at a time, hardly breathing until his eyes found her lifeless shape lying in Brienne's arms, head dangling backwards, eyes opening and closing slowly and lips an icy blue. 

Jon had thought it odd that Sansa had not shown up to discuss preparations for the upcoming visit of the Cerwyns over luncheon. It was so unlike her to forget an appointment. At first he'd brushed it off and assumed she had simply been too busy with her many duties as Lady of Winterfell. They'd still have time to talk about the Cerwyns after supper. Yet he'd found himself unable to focus on his own tasks. Instead of abating, the uneasy feeling in his stomach only increased and finally he'd decided to go looking for her.

He grabbed Sansa's icy hand, looking back to find Maester Wolkan following Brienne and him into the Lady's Chambers. As Brienne laid Sansa down on the pile of furs in front of the fire, Jon turned to the bed to collect more covers and furs, glaring at the maids and guards who had entered the room behind them. "We have to get her out of these wet clothes first," the maester remarked. Jon nodded, helping Brienne pull off Sansa's soaked cloak. Parts of it were frozen stiff, as were several strands of her fiery hair. 

He glanced behind him and saw that the room was still full of people. He leapt up in a rage and started shouting at them. "Out! All of you! Now!"

They obeyed quickly, hurrying out of Sansa's bedroom and Jon followed to close the door. He whirled around, but Brienne gave him a stern look. "Fine," he sighed and turned his back to the fire, barely able to stand still, his fists balled at his sides, his shoulders tense.  _What's taking so long?_ "Your Grace?"

The quiet words had barely left the maester's mouth, when Jon was already kneeling next to Sansa's still form, covered in furs, taking her hand again. Brienne turned to the fire to stoke up the flames, as the maester held two fingers to the side of Sansa's neck. "Her heart is beating. It's strong, but slow..."

He felt the maester's hesitation and looked up. The pitiful look in the man's eyes was enough. He didn't speak the words, but Jon heard them anyway.  _Too slow._ Gods, what had happened? Why had she gone out in this weather? Why had she decided to stay put there while it was snowing? He started rubbing her cold arm with both his hands. "Your Grace! Don't!"

He glared at the maester. "It's dangerous to get frozen blood flowing too quickly again, and painful."

He clenched his teeth. His voice came out rough and choked. "Is there nothing I can do?"

"You should try talking to her, Your Grace, see if she responds to you. Lady Brienne, could you get some warm broth and honeyed water from the kitchens?"

Brienne left immediately. Jon held Sansa's hand to his cheek and reached out to cup her temple, smoothing her hair back from her face. "Sansa, can you hear me, sweet girl?"

Her eyelids fluttered until her eyes were half-open. He thought her lips weren't as blue anymore, but her skin was still so pale and icy. "Sansa," he begged, "please!"

She opened her eyes completely now. She moved them slowly, searching. "J-Jon?"

He bit his lip, nodding. "Yes, it's me. I'm here. Can you look at me?"

Sansa met his eyes and her lips curled into the slightest of smiles. She blinked slowly, only able to focus for a couple of moments. "Sansa?"

She squeezed his hand. It was light, but he could feel it. Her voice was hoarse. "I'm sorry, Jon. I wanted to protect you, but I can't do it. I'm sorry, I really can't."

He jerked his head up, throwing the maester an alarmed look. "This is normal for her condition, Your Grace."

He turned back to Sansa. "Hush now, don't worry about it. Everything will be fine."

She shook her head once. "No, it won't. I didn't mean to, Jon... But it was so nice out in the cold. It made me feel numb again."

He swallowed, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Why would you want to feel numb?"

"Because I'm a stupid girl," she whispered, "I allowed myself to hope. And then I thought, if I just closed my eyes for a moment, I could make it all go away, if only for a while."

Brienne came back into the room, a tray with two small bowls in her hands. Jon's vision had become blurry. He blinked, surprised at the tears springing from his eyes. "Thank you, My Lady," the maester said. She looked at Jon's face and cleared her throat. "I'll wait outside."

"Could you help her sit up, Your Grace?"

He moved to sit behind Sansa, letting her lean back against his chest and watched as the maester fed her spoonfuls of the warm liquids. Her skin still felt cold through her linen shift. He whispered encouragements into her ear, urging her to drink. When he glanced up, he saw the frown on the maester's face. "What?"

The maester put the bowl aside and sighed. "It's taking too long..."

 _No! Gods, please, no!_ He couldn't lose her. She was the only family he had left and he'd come to love her more than he ever could have expected. He had to admit that part of that love had taken quite an unexpected turn. He'd spent many a sleepless night cursing himself, agonizing over his unnatural feelings. He'd rise almost every morning telling himself he had to end this, that he needed to learn to control himself, but he failed every day as soon as he laid eyes on her.  _What kind of man lusts after his own sister?_

He'd received an answer to that question only a few days ago. _A Targaryen bastard._ And though that might mean they weren't siblings at all, it changed little about the fact they'd been raised as brother and sister. It didn't matter now. All that did was that he loved her and needed her. _Please, Sansa, I can't do this without you._ He wasn't even sure he'd survive if she- He cut the thought short, not even allowing himself to think the word. "Isn't there anything else we could do? How about a warm bath?"

Maester Wolkan shook his head slowly, rubbing his chin. "No, I wouldn't advise you to do that, Your Grace. I've seen that gone wrong too many times. It's too much of a shock for the body. But there might be something else..."

Jon's heart leapt up. "Tell me!"

"It should work," the maester mused, "I've seen it before. We should get her in the bed and have someone undress so she can share their body's warmth. I'll call in one of her maids."

He shook his head. "No!"

Sansa would never agree to that. She didn't like anyone touching her, even if they weren't men. She didn't know her maids well enough, wouldn't trust them with such a task. Perhaps Brienne could do it. He tried to remember whether he'd ever seen her touch Sansa.  _No._ He'd never seen anyone touch her. She could hardly even stand having those maids help her dress. She flinched whenever one of the stable boys tried to assist her when dismounting her horse.

She used to love dancing, but now she'd stay put in her seat, watching the other guests enjoying themselves on the dancefloor with a sad smile on her face. He remembered the feast they'd held only a fortnight ago. Nearly all of their bannermen who'd been present had approached her, asking for a dance. She'd refused them all.

By the end of the evening though, when most of the guests had been too drunk to notice, she'd begged Jon for a dance. In the end he'd given in with a sigh and quipped he was sure this was the last time she'd ask him to dance. It had gone better than he'd expected, even if the closeness of her body had been sweet torture. He'd only stepped on her toes once and she'd giggled.

"I'll do it myself."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently I'll need one more chapter to finish this :)
> 
> I'm not sure Sansa's behaviour here is consistent with the symptoms of hypothermia, but let's just imagine it is. People suffering from it tend to feel sleepy, which I think might induce a state of lowered inhibitions. And Sansa's inhibitions are definitely lowered here.

Jon tried to ignore the look on Maester Wolkan's face. "Your Grace, the lady is your sister, but still... Wouldn't that be a little improper?"

He wanted to jump to his feet and grab the maester by his chain, but Sansa was still leaning against his chest. How did he dare to call this improper? He was the one who'd been here when Sansa had been at Bolton's mercy, who'd known better than anyone what he was doing to her, since he'd been the one to tend to her wounds after. "We're talking about saving her life," he hissed, "how could that be improper?!"

"Forgive me, Your Grace. I was merely thinking about the way rumours tend to spread around a castle..."

"Then I'd advise you to avoid any rumours from being started!"

The maester rose to his feet and inclined his head. He walked over to the bed to pull back the covers. "You'll want to move her gently, Your Grace. I'll take her feet."

Jon nodded and adjusted his position so he could brace himself to hold her weight when he rose. "Sansa, we're going to lift you onto the bed."

She hummed, leaning her head against his chest. When she was in the bed, he stripped down to his smallclothes and climbed in after her, pulling up the covers and tucking them around their bodies. Maester Wolkan piled more furs on top of them. The bed became unbearably hot within moments, but Sansa was still cold beside him. Gooseflesh rose where she touched him.

"I'll come to check up on her later. Don't let her fall asleep."

When the maester had left the room, Jon wrapped his arms around Sansa and pulled her close. He had to resist the urge to rub her back. He could feel her hard nipples brush against his chest. Her face was so close he could count the freckles on her nose. "Sansa?"

Her eyes flew open. They were so blue against her white skin, framed by those thick dark lashes. "Don't be scared, Sansa," he whispered, "I'm just trying to get you warm. Just hold on to me, I'll make you better."

She only smiled, bumping her nose against his. It was icy and made him shiver, but then she sighed "Mmm, Jon," raising the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck again and sending a tingle through his entire body as heat flushed in his groin. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat. Sansa looped her arm under his and clung to his back, pulling herself even closer. She nuzzled her face into his shoulder.

He wondered how often he had dreamed of holdig her like this. The only right answer was too often. Once would have been too much. Despite his anguish, part of him rejoiced, overflowing with the unimaginable pleasure of having her in his arms, while yet another part of him was screaming for him to get out of the bed and run as far away as possible.

He remembered he had to keep her awake. "Sansa? You're not sleeping, are you?"

"No," she murmured, lips moving against his collarbone, "but my head is spinning."

 _So is mine._ "You're so warm," she commented, hooking a long leg over his hip. The inside of her thigh was noticably warmer than the rest of her body. He screwed his eyes shut to focus on anything but the beautiful girl pressed close to him. He visualized Septa Mordane's hairy legs, tried to imagine what Sam would look like naked and running, thought of Tormund farting under his furs, but nothing could stop him from growing hard.

Sansa obviously didn't realize what she was doing, so hopefully she wouldn't notice. And he'd just have to endure this.It was nothing compared to the idea of losing her. That thought seemed to cool him down a bit.  _Focus, you need to keep talking._ "Sansa, please get better. Don't leave me here alone."

"I won't," she answered, "I want to stay here with you."

Why was she saying things like that? "Then why did you go out there?"

"I needed to protect you, but I couldn't do it."

She'd said that before, but it still didn't make any sense. "Why do you need to protect me?"

She shook her head. "Don't want to talk about it."

"What _do_ you want to talk about?"

"Will you dance with me again?"

He chuckled. "Now?"

Her giggle tickled the skin of his shoulder and shook her body, moving it against his ever so slightly.  _Fuck, here we go again._ "No, silly, that would be odd. We don't have any clothes on."

Jon tensed. Perhaps she was more aware of her surroundings than he'd suspected. He tried to continue their conversation. "I'd just step on your toes again, Sansa. And the Lords would find it odd if you only ever danced with your brother."

She pulled back to look at him, her expression unreadable. "You're not my brother."

 _No, I'm not._   _I never was._ She seemed more alert now and he thought she felt a little warmer. When the maester returned, he confirmed Jon's hopes. He nodded, a pleased look on his face. "She should get some rest. It's safe for you to leave her now, Your Grace."

"No, stay," Sansa objected. When Maester Wolkan had knocked on the door, Jon had untangled them and shuffled away from her. She gripped his arm with surprising strength to keep him from getting out of the bed. "Perhaps I'll stay a little while longer, just to be certain. Thank you, Maester."

 


	3. Chapter 3

Jon fell asleep with Sansa curled up against his side. He dreamed of her. She was dancing in a sunny meadow, blue flowers in her hair and a smile on her pretty pink lips. Her eyes were glittering and her cheeks were flushed. She laughed, calling out his name: "Jon!

He came closer, smiling back at her. "Jon!"

"Sansa..."

"Jon!"

He frowned. Her lips weren't moving and her tone was a lot firmer now. He opened his eyes. Sansa was watching him, propped up on one elbow. "Jon! Why are you in my bed?"

He blinked. She wasn't smiling anymore, a crease had appeared between her eyebrows and she was biting her lip. He tried to tear his gaze away from her mouth to meet her confused eyes. "I'm sorry, I can explain everything! What do you remember?"

She wet her lips. "I went out to the Godswood. I wanted to be alone... After that... It's all blurred. I was cold, so cold. And I think I remember you holding me. You were so warm... Was that real?"

Jon nodded. "We couldn't get you warm again. Your heart... Maester Wolkan said you needed the heat of someone else's body to get better. He wanted to call in one of your maids, but you don't like other people touching you, so I..."

He let his explanation trail off. It sounded very silly now. He pushed himself up until he was sitting against the headboard. Sansa didn't answer for a moment, she only stared at him with an odd look in her eyes. Eventually she whispered: "You did that for me?"

"Of course!"

"Thank you..."

Her eyes travelled down to his naked chest and grew large as they took in his barely healed scars. He tried to reach for his tunic, but she stilled him with a hand on his shoulder. She had a sad look on her face. He could see the pain in her eyes. She traced the crescent line over his heart with a delicate finger. He closed his eyes. As she repeated the motion with a scar close to his navel, his stomach muscles rippled under her touch. She pulled back her hand, pushing herself up to sit next to him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. He took a deep breath. "It's not your fault. You weren't there."

He turned to look at her. Her eyes were still sad. "I'm here now," she said, "but I can't do what it takes to protect you."

He studied her face. "I really hope you're finally going to explain that, Sansa. I'm afraid I don't understand. Why would you need to protect me?"

She tilted her head back and sighed. "Littlefinger. He knows. He knew all along."

She shivered, so Jon pulled up some furs to cover her chest and shoulders. She offered him a watery smile. "At first he just kept repeating that you were a usurping bastard who had stolen my birthright."

He clenched his jaw. He hated Baelish almost as much as he'd hated Ramsay, but he couldn't deny the truth in his words. Sansa continued: "He thought that would be enough to turn me against you, but when he noticed it wasn't working, he told me the truth."

Jon's brow furrowed in confusion.  _The truth? She could't possibly mean..._ She inclined her head, absently tracing a silver line on her forearm. "I'm sorry, Jon, I know I should have told you immediately, but at first I didn't believe it. I thought it was just another lie. And then, when I'd had some time to think about it, I felt it must be true, because it meant..."

She turned away from him, but she couldn't hide the blush creeping up her cheeks. She bit her lip and faced him again. "I swear I was going to tell you, Jon. I just thought it would be safer for you if you didn't know, at least until I'd figured out his plan. But then Howland Reed arrived and..."

He opened and closed his mouth as he blinked at her in confusion. "How long have you known?"

Sansa shrugged. "A fortnight? I think he told me the day of the feast."

He stared at her for a moment. "You don't hate me?"

She rolled her eyes. "Of course I don't hate you. It doesn't change anything. Well, I suppose it does, but..."

Jon smiled at her and reached out to grab her hand. She squeezed his in return and shook her head. "But that's not the point. Littlefinger knows and he wants to use it against you."

 _Of course he does._ "What does he want?"

She closed her eyes. "Me. He wants me to marry him in exchange for his silence."

Fury raged through his veins. "No! I won't allow it! I can't let you do that for me!"

"I thought I could, Jon. I thought I could protect you, but I can't do it... When the lords find out..."

He shook his head. "I don't care, I never wanted this crown, it's yours. This isn't a secret we can hope to keep forever. Better to be honest now."

She opened her eyes to look at him. "So you would make me Queen?"

"Aye, I would. You  _are_ the rightful Queen."

She threw up her hands. "And then what? I'd be an even more attractive prize for Littlefinger."

He frowned at her. "You're not a prize, Sansa," he objected in a low voice, "isn't there... There must be some way to protect you, so you wouldn't have to marry him."

She huffed. "The only way I would be unable to wed him, is if I were already married to someone else. But I don't want to leave Winterfell. And I certainly don't want to marry another man who only wants me for my claim and my body..."

Jon could feel his heart swell with emotion as he heard the despair in her voice. If only there was some way he could help her.  _You can,_ a small voice in the back of his mind whispered,  _she's not your sister._ You  _could marry her._ He tried to push back the thought, to pretend it hadn't even occurred to him, before he opened his mouth and asked her. _You'd be able to protect her,_ the voice reminded him. How clever that selfish part of him sounded. 

He tried to talk himself out of it, but suddenly he heard himself saying: "What if you could marry a man who truly cares about you?"

Sansa shook her head as a mirthless laugh escaped her lips. " _You_ are the only man who has ever cared about me since Father died!"

She blinked at him slowly. He watched her face as the meaning of his words sank in. She cleared her throat. "Oh!"

"It wouldn't have to be- you know... Nothing would change, but I'd be able to protect you."

He could do that. He would marry her and never expect her to be his wife in truth. If that was what it took to keep her safe, he would do it. She took his hand and her touch sent a shiver down his spine. "What about you?"

"What about me? You'd be protecting me too. They couldn't send me away or take away my crown if we were wed. I told you, I don't care about it, not really... But we have a duty to the North. It needs unity, stability."

He didn't believe a word he was saying, even if it was somewhat true. He didn't care, not really. All he cared about was her. She ran her thumb over his knuckles. "That's not what I meant, Jon. It's a brilliant plan, I-I should have thought about it myself."

Something was off about her voice when she said those last words and Jon didn't miss the way she tried to avert her eyes. He was certain he felt her pulse racing under his hand. He narrowed his eyes. "You- you did think about it, didn't you?"

Sansa's cheeks flushed a bright red. Of course it had already occurred to her. She'd had more time to think about it and he supposed it was quite an obvious solution. "Why didn't you just ask me?"

She couldn't meet his eyes. "Because I was afraid you'd refuse me."

"You think I wouldn't be prepared to do that for you?"

She shrugged. "I just thought you'd prefer to marry some other girl, someone you love."

The words were out of his mouth before he could think. "But I love _you_."

He could hear her sharp intake of breath. Their eyes locked and for a moment they just stared at each other. He didn't know who moved first, but suddenly her hands were in his hair and his were on her waist and he was kissing her. It was soft and slow at first, but soon enough Sansa deepened the kiss. When she parted her lips, he moaned into her mouth and slipped his tongue into it.

They were startled by people shouting and what sounded like some kind of brawl on the other side of the door. Reluctantly they broke apart, still holding each other. The door burst open and revealed Petyr Baelish. "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner, my love. No one told me what happened and they wouldn't let me in."

Sansa wrapped her arms more tightly around Jon's neck. He pulled her closer, trying to shield her with his body. Littlefinger's eyes grew wide in disbelief as he took in the scene before him. His face contorted in anger. "No! How could you do this to me? You'd still be nothing without me! You wouldn't even be alive!"

She just shook her head. "Please, Jon," she said in a firm, cool voice, loud and clear enough for Baelish to hear, "I don't want to see his face."

"Guards," he roared, "seize him and take him away!"

When they'd dragged Baelish from the room, Jon kissed the top of Sansa's head. "I won't ever let him come near you again," he murmured into her hair, "I'll protect you, I promise."

She nuzzled her face into his neck. "I know."


End file.
